Rob Miles

 

Poems

In Pieces

Crow

Jubilee Mug




 
 


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In Pieces

Autumn is a flinging of the year's outfits
across the lawn. A few fashion forward

memories in there, mostly of summer
in pieces, in dead leaf shades, in grass

too wet to cut, in acorn-toggles, fallen
nut-buttons, from trees backstage

with fingers suddenly sensing the cold,
but undressing meticulously, one tense

tantalizing branch at a time, then twig
tips up, ready to pose.

 
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Crow

Forever silhouette, even
when the light's
not right. The light could stare at you
any side, but claw and wing
adjusting would still be the confusion
of sharpening knives or fire irons
when you lift... you are the black from flames
                          and the flame,
                  black flame.

 
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Jubilee Mug

It was like living in some dictatorship
where they slow the station clocks
because the train's delayed, or send people
to muck out wind farms. Unpaid.
Despite the reiterated unrealities
you were helpful in your way
like royalty at a bomb site. Morale
duly renewed with tea; even the spoon
steamed melodramatically beside the cup,
having wound itself up for a second,
and I got back to packing...

 
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